Chapter Thirty-One: The Tormented Elite

The morning sunlight heralded the approach of early autumn, as leaves drifted gently to the ground.

Everyone knew that Li Jiali was a master in weapon handling at the school. He could assemble a weapon from hundreds of parts in the shortest possible time, and anything in his hands could become a weapon. His reputation for drawing his firearm faster than the eye could see was well known among the students. It was also rumored that he possessed a secret technique, though none had ever witnessed it. Yet, Li Jiali never held back his knowledge from his students; he shared everything openly. The secret technique, however, remained just that—a legend spoken of but never seen.

Now, he stood quietly in an open field, with Chen Cao standing behind him.

“To become a true master on the battlefield, one cannot rely solely on weapons, but neither should you become too dependent on them. For a true expert, the body itself is a weapon. The battlefield is a fusion of speed and technique—it embodies the principle that nothing in the world can overcome pure swiftness,” Li Jiali said, drawing a simple Mauser rifle from his pack and gazing at the falling leaves.

Chen Cao listened intently. He had long heard tales of this gentle, scholarly instructor, knowing that today, this man—always courteous and refined, looking more like a scholar than a soldier—was about to demonstrate the fabled secret skill.

“Well then, let’s begin training,” Li Jiali said with his usual grace, turning to Chen Cao with a slight smile. He swiftly disassembled the Mauser in his hands; with a flick of his wrist, the rifle seemed to fall apart, scattering its pieces onto the ground.

He pulled a stopwatch from his pocket and tossed it to Chen Cao. “I’ll start with something simple. One minute,” he said.

“What’s the target?” Chen Cao couldn’t help but ask.

“The leaves. The falling leaves over there,” Li Jiali replied calmly, kneading his hands as if preparing for something.

“That’s ridiculous,” Chen Cao thought as he looked at the dense trees ahead, the leaves no more than a few dozen meters away. The leaves fell so slowly that compared to the speed of a bullet, it seemed child’s play. Still, though he thought this, he didn’t voice it.

“Do you see the large tree in the center?” Li Jiali seemed to read his mind. “The goal is to pin as many leaves as possible to that tree with your shots.”

Chen Cao glanced at Li Jiali, puzzled, but quickly composed himself. He knew better than to question this instructor. Hitting a leaf was not beyond him—his eyesight, honed under Duan Tianya’s tutelage, was exceptional. But to pin a leaf to a specific spot on a tree, to control the bullet’s force with such precision, was something else entirely. Anyone who understood gravity knew that each leaf fell at its own speed and distance.

“All right, you go first. Let’s start with the basics,” Li Jiali said, understanding Chen Cao’s thoughts. He picked up another Mauser and loaded it with bullets before handing it to Chen Cao. “This is single-shot—primitive, basic. Let’s see how you do.”

Chen Cao accepted the weapon. Shooting was no stranger to him. He raised the rifle, adjusted his breathing, and thought, “To control the bullet’s force, I have to manage the distance, adjust my aim, and conserve my energy. This shouldn’t be too hard. Let’s do it.”

Li Jiali started the stopwatch and called, “Begin!”

Bang! Chen Cao’s eyes widened as adrenaline surged. The falling leaf seemed just before him. He pulled the trigger, firing the first shot.

The bullet whistled through a leaf just falling, but instead of pinning it to the tree, it merely punched a tiny hole and sent the leaf spinning to the ground.

“No good. The leaves are too thin,” Chen Cao muttered, raising his head.

Li Jiali held the stopwatch in one hand and binoculars in the other, wearing a faint, knowing smile on his lips.

Chen Cao sprinted backward over a hundred meters, turned, and fired again.

His aim and shooting accuracy were still on point, but the result was the same. The bullet merely passed through, failing to pin the leaf to the tree.

Bang, bang, bang! Chen Cao adjusted his position and speed, firing repeatedly as he moved several hundred meters farther, but to no avail. Frustrated and out of breath, he trudged back to Li Jiali in silence.

“Time’s up. Your score is zero. My turn,” Li Jiali said, stopping the clock and jogging over to take it from Chen Cao. He flexed his fingers and spoke softly, “Start.”

Chen Cao nodded and started the stopwatch.

The moment he pressed the button, Li Jiali’s gentle gaze hardened. The scattered gun parts seemed to spring to life under his flying fingers, assembling themselves as if by magic. Most astonishing to Chen Cao was the fluidity of Li Jiali’s movements and the firing of the first bullet from the barrel.

...

By now, hundreds of stakes had been driven into the clearing of the woods. Zhou Anshi stood with arms folded, watching Chen Cao, breathless and muddy, clamber atop one nearly two meters high.

“How was it? Just came from Old Li, right? Proves our team has some real talent. You look in good spirits. Guess Old Li’s still too genteel,” Zhou Anshi teased with his usual devil-may-care grin, as if he’d forgotten how, a year ago, he’d bullied Chen Cao and broken his leg.

Chen Cao wiped the mud from his face and snorted, “It’s just push-ups.”

“How many did you do?” Zhou Anshi asked mischievously.

“Three thousand!” Chen Cao answered, his face pale beneath the mud, steam rising from his body.

“Hmm, for normal training, that’s enough. But you’re in special training. That was just the warm-up. Say, I hear you’ve practiced the Eight-Level Fist. How about we spar? Settle last year’s score?” Zhou Anshi’s eyes narrowed mischievously.

Gritting his teeth, Chen Cao steadied himself atop the stake. He’d done basic stance training with Tang Bo before, but only half-heartedly. Now, barely managing to keep his balance, he was about to boast, “I’d love nothing more,” when Zhou Anshi darted toward him like a snake from the stakes and launched a kick at his shoulder.

Thud! Exhausted and unsteady from Li Jiali’s earlier drills, Chen Cao’s reflexes were dulled. He failed to dodge, taking the kick full force and tumbling from the stakes.

This is it, he thought as he flew through the air—if I land on those stakes, I’ll be paralyzed for sure. He had no idea how to react.

Suddenly, at the brink of despair, a powerful force yanked him back. His feet touched down on a stake, his vision spinning until he saw Zhou Anshi’s mocking face.

“Kid, don’t think being told you’re one in a billion by Captain Duan makes you special. In the end, you’re still just human. There are plenty of strong people in this world. Without real skill, you’ll be killed easily!” Zhou Anshi said, then tossed Chen Cao into the air again, kicking him off the stakes like a soccer ball...

...

Bruised and battered, clutching his chest, Chen Cao staggered from the stakes to the northern edge of the woods by dusk. There, Instructor Shang Liming had already dozed off against a tree.

“Instructor Shang, I’m here—half an hour late,” Chen Cao announced, taking a deep breath, bracing for punishment. It was only his first day, but he was resigned; headquarters could wear him out if they wanted.

Shang Liming, dressed in camouflage, opened his eyes at Chen Cao’s voice and pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh. Sit,” he whispered, pointing to the spot opposite him.

It was then that Chen Cao noticed several small, furry, gray creatures beside Shang Liming, all wrapped in pieces of camouflage fabric, twitching like tiny plush dolls—adorable, really. Only as he sat did he realize they were field mice.

“These are my scouts. Aren’t they interesting?” Shang Liming said with a sly grin.

“Is this what we’re training?” Chen Cao relaxed. To him, training mice was no different than training police dogs—and even a little fun.

“In a manner of speaking,” Shang Liming replied, sitting up and pulling a whistle from his pocket. He blew softly; the sound was like birdsong. Moments later, to Chen Cao’s astonishment, a flock of pigeons soared overhead in perfect formation, circling above them.

“Amazing!” Chen Cao exclaimed. Guns and martial arts were one thing, but this was fascinating.

“The unit’s in training,” Shang Liming said, waving his hand. The pigeons seemed to understand him and flew off into the distance.

“These are my scouts too,” he added, tucking the whistle away with a smile. “That’s what I’ll be teaching you. Don’t underestimate these animals—they could save your life. But to command them, you need to build a bond.”

“How do I do that?” Chen Cao asked eagerly, kneading his hands, forgetting his muddy, battered face.

“Let them get used to you, of course,” Shang Liming replied, stomping his foot in a steady rhythm.

Suddenly, besides the few camouflaged field mice, countless more gray, muddy rodents swarmed from the ground and raced toward Chen Cao in a tide.

Seeing hundreds of mice surging toward him like a wave, every hair on Chen Cao’s body stood on end.